


Reading What Can Be Read

by rhosyn_du



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Community: yaoi_challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-27
Updated: 2005-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyn_du/pseuds/rhosyn_du
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aya and Yohji discuss the finer points of literature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reading What Can Be Read

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://mookiegatto.livejournal.com/profile)[**mookiegatto**](http://mookiegatto.livejournal.com/)'s request: _A heated discussion and an unplanned revelation._

There was something deeply satisfying about drinking coffee in the afternoon, Yohji reflected as he filled his mug. In the morning, coffee was a necessity, brushing back the mental cobwebs of exhaustion, and by the time he was awake enough to actually enjoy the complexities of flavor, there was nothing left but a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. But later, when the dregs of sleep and half-remembered nightmares had been buried under the mindless monotony of several hours working the Koneko’s register – smile, ring purchase, flatter customer, take money, make change, wink for the ones who’d appreciate it, “have a nice day,” repeat – then, he could drink coffee purely for the enjoyment of it. With an appreciative sigh, Yohji lifted the cup to his lips and swirled the dark, aromatic liquid around his tongue. Oh, yeah. That’s what drinking coffee was supposed to be like.

Mug in one hand, paperback novel in the other, the blond assassin left the kitchen. As much as he hated - _hated_ \- working the opening shift, he had to admit that there were a few benefits. Like afternoon coffee over a cheap mystery novel and the occasional chance to play what was becoming one of his favorite games.

Yohji paused in the doorway to survey the playing field and consider his strategy. The shop was open for another two hours, which meant Ken and Omi would be occupied at least that long, and if Manx was planning on putting in an appearance, it wouldn’t happen until they’d closed up shop for the day. Two hours was the perfect length of time for a decent round of Figure Out What the Fuck is Going On Inside Aya’s Head.

The redhead was in his usual position: perched on the large chair directly beneath the room’s single lamp, book in hand, glasses resting high on his nose. Yohji sometimes suspected that any real chance he had of understanding the other man was in moments like this. There was something almost peaceful about Aya when he was deeply immersed in reading, as if the barely-contained rage that he projected had simply drained away for a few moments, leaving whatever else it was that made up Aya.

It was a well-known fact that the surest way to catch Kudoh Yohji’s attention was to present him with a mystery or a pretty face. Both factors in combination were pretty much guaranteed to hold his attention for as long as it took to unravel the mystery or tumble the pretty face into bed, preferably both. Whatever other words one might use to describe Aya, “pretty” and “mystery” definitely belonged on the list, along with several less complimentary terms that even in Yohji’s more patient and compassionate moments included “arrogant” and “pain in the ass.”

And if anyone noticed his interest in his enigmatic teammate, that’s how Yohji would play it off. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that his motivations went beyond simple fascination. Certainly no one who thought they knew Kudoh Yohji, playboy extraordinaire, somewhat shallow and more than a little lazy, would suspect that he was concerned about his teammate’s mental health (or lack thereof) and how that might affect Weiss’ ability to do their job. Yohji considered this to be a Good Thing. If any of his teammates suspected that he felt any sense of responsibility for Weiss, they might expect him to start behaving responsibly in other areas as well – like showing up on time for his shifts in the shop – and that just wouldn’t do. And god forbid _Aya_ guess what he was up to. If there was anything Yohji had learned in his months of observation, it was that Aya believed himself to be utterly self-sufficient.

It wasn’t as though the excuse would be a total falsehood, either. The redhead was inscrutable enough and beautiful enough that Yohji might have pursued this course of action without any other reason. Certainly, it was those factors that made this a pleasant game rather than a chore. Although, in this case, the pretty face ending up in his bed was not only highly unlikely, but was also probably a Very Bad Idea. Probably.

As Yohji watched, Aya lifted a cup of tea to his lips. If watching Aya read was potentially enlightening, watching the man drink tea was something else entirely. The redhead pulled the cup away from his mouth, tongue sweeping out to catch the drop of liquid that trembled on the rim of the cup. Yohji let out a breath. There shouldn’t be anything arousing about watching someone drink tea. There really shouldn’t. But there was something about the way that Aya’s tongue caressed the lip of his teacup that was oddly erotic.

Very Bad Idea, Yohji reminded himself sternly. A standard opening seemed like a good choice. There was something to be said for routine. Besides, if Aya was going to make Yohji’s life difficult with his near-pornographic tea drinking, it seemed only fair that Yohji should annoy the redhead in return.

Strategy determined, the blond sauntered into the room and dropped into a lazy sprawl across the couch. Aya ignored him, but violet eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and any sense of peace that had surrounded the younger man was gone. Yohji opened his book and began reading.

After several minutes, he set the novel aside. “Whatcha reading, Aya?”

Without looking up, the redhead twisted the book so Yohji could see the front cover.

Since the other man wasn’t looking, Yohji didn’t bother to roll his eyes, but his voice held a hint of exasperation. “What are you reading _about_?”

Aya glanced up briefly. “Fake fish dreams.”

“Fake fish dreams,” Yohji repeated, hiding the satisfied quirk of his lips behind his coffee cup. Not only had he gotten a verbal response, but it was an answer to his question rather than a sharp suggestion that Yohji could always go read in his own room if he found Aya’s reading material distracting. It looked like today might be one of those rare times when Yohji could coax an actual conversation out of his reticent teammate. Though he couldn’t be certain, Yohji thought those instances were slowly becoming less rare. It was a good sign.

This time, Aya met his gaze. “Yes.” The deep voice held no little amount of annoyance, but Yohji noted with satisfaction that the annoyance was clearly not enough to keep the redhead from talking. “And I assure you it’s much more interesting than the drivel you insist upon reading.”

Yohji blinked. This was new. Aya had never before commented on Yohji’s literary preferences. Hell, Yohji was surprised that the younger man had even noticed what it was he read; he certainly hadn’t seemed to pay it any mind. Yohji wondered briefly and somewhat uneasily what else Aya might have noticed while seeming not to pay the slightest bit of attention. Still, it was both informative and reassuring to find that the reserved assassin wasn’t quite as self-absorbed as he seemed.

“What makes you call it drivel?” Yohji asked, deciding without having to really think about it that he was more interested in the possibility of a conversation than in being offended at Aya’s unfavorable description of his preferred reading material.

Aya frowned, setting his own book aside. “The stories are just so . . . pat,” he answered. “It’s obvious from the beginning that the main characters – who, by the way, are always far too skilled and attractive to be at all believable – will solve the puzzle, catch the bad guys without getting themselves killed or often even seriously injured, and will then proceed to either live happily ever after in each other’s arms or bemoan the cruelty of fate that has led them to such a lonely and tragic existence before riding off into the dark and stormy night to angst for the rest of their lives. It’s so far removed from reality as to be almost comical.”

It was, Yohji had to admit, a fairly accurate assessment of the novel he was currently reading – the latest in a series of romantic thrillers written by an American author – which he had chosen as a prop for this little excursion in part because it was easy enough to follow even with most of his attention focused elsewhere. Still . . . “So you’re saying that a man living in a refrigerator box with a radio and a coffee mug is somehow more real?”

Violet eyes narrowed dangerously as a slender hand reached out protectively to rest on the cover of the book Aya was reading. “You’ve read it.” The words were more of an accusation than a question.

Yohji shrugged. “A long time ago, for school.” And twice since, but wasn’t about to let the other man know that he _liked_ the book, not after the redhead had spent the past several minutes belittling what he was reading, not after nearly a year of having to dig and wheedle to get even the slightest hint of what might be lying behind the icy and efficient persona Aya projected.

Yohji tried not to consider the possibility that the cold, competent killer with a disturbingly good eye for floral arrangement really was the whole of Aya. Because, Yohji knew, you couldn’t go out and kill repeatedly as yourself and hope to maintain any semblance of sanity. There had to be some sort of buffer persona if you didn’t want to lose your mind. If Aya really were nothing more than he pretended to be . . . Yohji suppressed the shudder that threatened to run up his spine. If Aya really were nothing more than Abyssinian, then that meant that Persia had placed a madman in Weiss, and Persia wasn’t that stupid. God, Yohji hoped Persia wasn’t that stupid.

“But that’s really beside the point,” he continued, turning his attention back to the conversation. “A book doesn’t have to be real to be enjoyable, Aya. Sometimes it’s nice to get lost in a simple story that you don’t have to really think about to understand. Something that’s just pointless and fun.

“It’s like . . .” He paused, searching for a good analogy. “It’s like food,” he said finally. “Sure, you can spend hours preparing a gourmet meal that you’ll savor every bite of, but that’s not something you want to do every day. Sometimes, you just want something quick and satisfying, so you eat yakisoba ‘cause it’s easy and cheap and it tastes good.”

“I don’t like yakisoba.”

Yohji sighed heavily, pushing himself up so that he was sitting on the couch rather than draped across it. “Now you’re just being difficult.”

Aya shook his head. “I’m really not. It’s just . . .” His eyebrows drew together in consideration. “I don’t really see the point in putting time and energy into reading something that will cease to have meaning for you the moment you reach the last word.”

The older assassin opened his mouth to comment, but stopped when an expression of exasperation bordering on pain crossed the other man’s face.

“Even if I were to grant that one might find enjoyment in a book that is nothing more than a simple story, which I don’t think I could, but I suppose I can see how someone else might, _that_ ,” Aya said, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of the book Yohji had been reading, “isn’t even a good story.”

Golden eyebrows flew up in surprise. “You’ve read it?”

“Well, no, not that one,” Aya admitted, “but the entire genre seems to be the same story told over and over again with different character names and very slight variation in the specifics of the plot.”

“Oh, come on, Aya. You don’t honestly expect me to believe you’re familiar enough with contemporary American thrillers to have an informed opinion on the subject.”

The younger man fixed him with a potent glare. “Twelve.” The word was forced out through gritted teeth.

“What?” Yohji was as confused by the redhead’s sudden display of anger as by his nonsensical response.

“I have read twelve of . . . those books,” Aya answered with clearly forced calm.

This clarification did nothing to ease Yohji’s confusion. Aya was angry because . . . he read . . . even though . . . good god, _twelve?_ Suddenly aware that he was gaping, and having previously discovered that gaping at Aya was an excellent way to incite the man to violence, Yohji voiced the only coherent thought that was currently running through his mind. “ _Why?_ ”

“Because,” Aya exploded, “I was _trying_ to figure out why you read them. Especially when –” His mouth snapped suddenly shut and something that looked suspiciously like surprise or apprehension or perhaps some combination of both flashed across his face. “In any case,” he continued, much more calmly, “my point is that I am, indeed, familiar enough with the genre to engage in informed criticism.”

Knowing that it would be useless, if not counterproductive, to attempt to convince Aya to finish vocalizing his answer, Yohji attempted to continue the conversation. “Okay, then.” There was something in Aya’s outburst that he knew warranted further examination, but he would think about it later. Right now, the important thing was to keep talking. Aya had clearly said something he hadn’t intended to, and Yohji was afraid it would cause the redhead to retreat behind his usual aloof demeanor. “On what grounds to you claim that the novels under discussion do not constitute ‘good stories’?”

“Well, in addition to the previously mentioned predictable plots and wholly unbelievable characters, the authors don’t even leave any questions unanswered.” The analysis, Yohji noted with a sinking feeling, was delivered in Aya’s usual clipped and slightly disdainful tone. “Every loose end is tied up in a tidy little package, leaving nothing for the readers to think about once they’ve closed the book. And don’t even get me started on the sex scenes.”

The last words were spoken with a hint of challenge underneath. Shit. Yohji wanted to ignore it, wanted to return the conversation to the point where they were having an actual back-and-forth discussion, but he knew that wasn’t an option. In one smooth motion, he rose from the couch, and moved the three steps it took him to be standing in front of Aya. Teasing grin on his lips, he leaned forward, placing one hand on each of the large chair’s armrests.

“You object to sex, Aya?” Yohji was expecting to be glared at, or snorted at derisively, or told in no uncertain terms to go fuck himself. He certainly wasn’t expecting what actually happened.

With an oddly blank expression, Aya leaned forward until their faces were centimeters apart. Looking directly into Yohji’s eyes, he answered in a quiet, clipped voice. “I don’t. Object. To sex.”

Emerald eyes went wide. Yohji could feel the other’s man’s breath on his lips and had to forcibly remind his libido that kissing Aya would really not be a good idea. Because whatever the redhead was doing, he was definitely _not_ coming on to him.

Aya leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “What I object to,” he continued conversationally, “are poorly written, repetitive, and wholly uninteresting sex scenes.”

Yohji stepped back, blinking as Aya continued speaking.

“Every one of those books I read followed the same pattern. There are exactly three sex scenes in each, one of which includes fellatio, and one of which takes place in a slightly inappropriate location. Each scene included improbably lucid dialogue – I’m sorry, but no one is capable of carrying on a coherent conversation during orgasm – and at least one use of the word ‘creamy’ to describe the woman’s skin. Skin should _not_ be creamy.

“And readers are supposed to find that erotic?” Aya snorted. “Where is the seduction, the artistry? There is nothing alluring about bland descriptions of boring sex. Genuine eroticism is all about subtlety.”

“Is that so?” Yohji asked faintly. Aya was . . . Aya was lecturing him on the aesthetics of the erotic. His brain couldn’t decide which was the more fitting reaction, shock or laughter. Maybe . . . maybe someone had slipped something into his coffee and this was some sort of drug-induced dream, or, hey, maybe Aya had hit him earlier for his teasing and he was unconscious, or . . .

“Absolutely,” Aya declared, standing abruptly. “I’ll show you.”

Shock, Yohji decided. Shock was definitely the appropriate reaction. It took him a moment to realize that Aya had crossed the room and was watching him impatiently from the doorway.

That had not been, could not have been, an invitation, Yohji thought dazedly as he followed Aya through the kitchen and up the stairs. This was _Aya_ , he reminded himself as the redhead pushed open the door to his apartment. Aya didn’t even like _talking_ to people, let alone . . . No; best not to even think about that.

Yohji couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed when Aya crouched down in front of a small bookcase. The older assassin took this opportunity to surreptitiously examine the other man’s room. Having only ever been inside to tend (or, more often, to be snapped at for attempting to tend) his teammate’s wounds, he’d never really had the opportunity before. There wasn’t much to it, actually – just the bookcase, a dresser, a small stereo, and a futon in the corner. Even so, the room didn’t give the impression of being barren so much as extremely functional.

Aya made a satisfied noise and stood, a slender volume in his hands. He flipped through the pages, obviously searching for something specific as he walked back over to the doorway in which Yohji was hovering. What might have been a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and he began reading.

“He flashes bare his strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes  
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise  
He flings the rabbit soft on the table board  
And comes towards me: ah! the uplifted sword  
Of his hand against my bosom! and oh, the broad  
Blade of his glance that asks me to applaud  
His coming!”

Yohji wondered how he had missed, in all the times he’d heard Aya speak, the utter sexiness of the man’s voice.

“With his hand he turns my face to him  
And caresses me with his fingers that still smell grim  
Of the rabbit’s fur! God, I am caught in a snare!  
I know not what fine wire is round my throat;  
I only know I let him finger there  
My pulse of life, and let him nose like a stoat  
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood.”

The blond man let out a sharp breath as Aya’s tongue darted out to wet pale-pink lips.

“And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down  
His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood  
Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood  
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown  
Against him, die, and find death good.”*

Violet eyes looked up from the page. Yohji was certain there was a question in them, but he didn’t know what it was, wasn’t certain he wanted to know. “Good book,” he managed finally.

“You can borrow it,” Aya said, suddenly brusque an businesslike once again. Without another word, he pressed the book into Yohji’s hands and walked past him, pulling the door shut behind him.

Yohji stared after Aya’s retreating back, and then at the empty space above the stairs for several minutes. He knew he needed to figure out what had just happened, but first he needed a cigarette. And a drink. He glanced down at the slim volume of poetry in his hands. Make that several drinks.

  
*from "Love on the Farm" by D. H. Lawrence


End file.
